


Last Minute

by mangocianamarch



Series: Le Livre de L'un par La Dame Marciana [13]
Category: The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Don't say I didn't warn you, F/M, Spoilers for Season 3, spoilers for season 3 episode 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:52:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, he doesn't even realize he's texted at all. He's <i>thisclose</i> to throwing his phone away from him (it's an iPhone though, Lord knows those things break faster than a KitKat bar against a kitchen counter). Instead, he puts it in the center of the table and leaves it there, goes for a bath because he's still covered in his own blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Minute

**Author's Note:**

> This sudden one-post, after MONTHS of absence from fic writing, was brought on by the end of [this post](http://packingupmydinosaurs.tumblr.com/post/60118021650/for-the-meme-you-reblogged-just-after-i-went-to-sleep) by [packingupmydinosaurs](http://packingupmydinosaurs.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. I wept JUST a little bit to read it, and then this fic hit me out of nowhere, so I had to write it, even though I was busy at work. I have my priorities straight, wussup.

The first thing Anders wakes up to and is actually conscious of is his phone.

It goes off, telling him he's received a message. It actually jolts him awake. Although it's not like he was dreaming or anything. He's not even sure how he made it to his bed. The last thing he consciously remembers is _the thing_ at Mike's. He _was_ at Mike's, right? That wasn't just his subconscious, or...

Phone. Right.

Groaning, Anders reaches down into the pockets of his pants. Not there? What in the fu—Oh, it's on the table. With a hushed cuss, Anders gingerly sits up, simultaneously groping blindly for his phone. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand as the other clicks on his phone.

 

_I'm leaving_

 

It's from Idunn.

Nope. Gaia. It's from _Gaia_. Gaia's _leaving_.

Leaving?

... _Fuck._

With some difficulty, Anders texts back quickly.

 

_Where? Why?_

 

Does he really expect she'll reply though?

He almost wants to text her that he doesn't really care. She can leave if she wants to, doesn't have to tell him why, good luck to her, good flight, all that crap. He could at least be nice about the whole thing, right?

He needs to go pee.

But wait, standing up might not be such a good idea right now.

_You're not an old man, Anders, get the fuck up._

It takes him all of five minutes to make it to the bathroom. He's still a little groggy, and on the way to the bathroom, he thinks a glass of water might do him some sort of good, but it's too much of a detour, so he decides against it. He can go for it after he's done in the bathroom.

He _doesn't_ go for the water when he's done in the bathroom.

Gaia hasn't replied.

That's okay. He didn't really expect her to. It's probably better that he doesn't know where to. He tries to text her as much.

 

_Are you coming back?_

 

He doesn't even realize what he sends until he's sent it. That's _so_ not what he had meant to say. Cursing under his breath, Anders flops back into bed, and his earlier blood loss causes his head to swim for a while. He gags slightly as he tries to get his head back. Maybe he really _does_ need that water. And some vodka. Slowly – _slowly_ – he gets up, phone in hand, and walks out to his kitchen, pouring himself some ice cold water. It works _a little_.

Alcohol. He needs alcohol.

Gaia _still_ hasn't replied to either one of his texts. Not that he's checking or anything, you know, not that he's really waiting for it. What does he expect she'll say anyway? They both know she's leaving because of _him_ , because of what's happened between the two of them. He knows she can't stand him, and honestly, the feeling is kind of mutual. She's stuffy, shrill, impetuous and far too arrogant. Nice set of knockers on her, though.

_Shut the fuck up, Anders, that's exactly the kind of thinking that got you in trouble in the first place._

That's right. _He_ got himself in trouble. Moment of clarity there.

_Dammit, vodka, you were supposed to be my friend._

He abandons any and all drink for now, sits himself down at his dining table, his phone still in his hand. It feels like some sort of trigger in his hand now. The second it goes off – _not that he's expecting it to_ – he's going to fire back and tell Gaia she shouldn't have cared because he doesn't.

Part of him thinks he _should_ care enough to at least feel bad that he's causing her to leave her home behind. And he _does_. He _does_ feel bad. Honestly. He's not _completely_ heartless.

He's not completely to blame either though, so he can only feel _so_ bad about it.

 

_I'm sorry._

 

This time, he doesn't even realize he's texted at all. He's _thisclose_ to throwing his phone away from him (it's an iPhone though, Lord knows those things break faster than a KitKat bar against a kitchen counter). Instead, he puts it in the center of the table and leaves it there, goes for a bath because he's still covered in his own blood.

Woops.

He chokes back on some acid reflux.

_Shouldn't have thought of the blood thing_.

Now he's light-headed _again_. Maybe he shouldn't have woken up in the first place. Maybe he should try and get some sleep again. Maybe he should call Dawn, ask her how her cat's doing. Maybe he should feed his fish. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing until the morning, when everyone's had a bit of coffee in them and feels slightly more forgiving.

He ends up wide awake in bed, shirtless under his covers, his phone in his hand, held up to his face.

No reply.

To be honest, he was kind of hoping for one for the last one. Even a simple “thanks” would have been nice. But whatever, this is exactly why he doesn't like her anyway.

Sleep. He should sleep. He should really sleep.

...One last text. One last. Just one, he swears.

 

_Don't go._

 

He means it this time. Means to text it. Means to send it. Means every word. Never mind why, he just does.

 

_...Don't go...._

 

When he wakes up in the morning, the text is still there.

He never sent it.

He decides not to.

 

 

_**~ END. ~** _

 


End file.
